A Cruel Mercy
by Marchwriter
Summary: A ranger and a captain must commit evil for the sake of good. But is it worth it?


**Author's Note**: For the Teitho contest "Good and Evil." 

**Disclaimer: **Fanfiction is illegal but merited for its creativity and because its authors risk libel and law suits to say what they must. I own them not. 

_A Cruel Mercy_

By: The Lady of Light

_Strength is born in the deep silence of long-suffering hearts, not amid joy._  
Hemans

Even the air was bloodied. A reek of chipped steel and split flesh clung tenaciously despite the attempts of a soft, summer wind to whisk it away. The tall, thin shadows of the grasses thickened gradually as the sun sank to a bloody smear in the west. The faint encore of clanging swords and deadly whine of arrows had died down into intermittent and distant clamoring. 

The captain of the victorious company stood at a little remove from the action, allowing his men to ride forward into the glory that they would doubtless heap on his shoulders; his forthright, unassuming manner drew praise from even the most knavish and uncharitable foot-soldier. At the moment, he stood quiet as ever, his tall, rangy form spattered here and there with the color of his calling, his well-used blade sunk partially into the earth so he might use it for a prop in his weariness. 

He was a foreigner this man—from the North it was said—(largely speculation since he did not speak of himself or his homeland as a general rule). He had risen into high favor with Thengel, King of Rohan though he had only been with the Riddermark Marshals some five or six years. His almost hasty rise in rank had been noted by other candidates with some suspicion and not a little resentment which had either diminished beneath the soothing humility of the man or been buried under an outward showing of like honesty. 

The man's name was Thorongil to those who had heard of him and were somewhat his familiars. The name that he truly belonged to was known to very few and one he kept close to his heart. 

The tang of joined battle had long ago seeped into his clothes, his skin, and his heart like blood into the ground. It had been a long campaign which, fortunately, had ended in victory. Realizing that he would soon be needed to organize care for the wounded and dead, the hateful duty after every battle, he tugged his sword out of the earth and set off in the direction his men had gone. 

The Dunelandings, the wild men, had come swiftly. Raids were not unexpected in the Riddermark which was prized for its horses, but the numbers were. The Dunelandings were fierce but usually cowardly. What courage or vengeful promise had stirred them up enough to slink so deeply into Rohirrim territory and snatch away more than a score of the white-blazed destriers, the king and his chieftains favorites, Thorongil would never know, but the cost had been high enough. 

The officer's long strides faltered slightly as he picked his way over the shattered wrecks of supply wagons, weapons and men. The quiet ones he passed without looking left or right, but those who moaned or twitched drew a cursory glance from him, sometimes a touch or word of reassurance. He took note of where they lay and memorized the names just in case. He wished he had more with which to comfort them, but any supplies he had had, any drugs that could have soothed away their pain had been lost or used up on the road months ago. Even his waterskin was missing. 

A waterskin was one of the most important pieces of gear a soldier could need. It had gone missing from his pack some days ago, and he had yet to seek the quartermaster to replace it. The blistering lecture such carelessness would have garnered from one of his northern friends, a practiced and able soldier himself of many millennia, was almost enough to make the weary man smile. Almost. 

A strange rattling pulled his attention back to his terrible inspection. The ground sloped steeply ahead, delving into a small, tangled defile at the edge of a copse where the fighting had been thickest. At the bottom of this, lay the splintered remnants of a wagon. It was from this that the noise was coming from. 

Thorongil, with an agility that belied his obvious exhaustion, scrambled down and rounded the side of the wagon which seemed to have crashed or been driven into a tree at the bottom. Pinned between the trunk and ruined chunks of shattered wood was a young man, blond and clutching a bow of Rohirric make, its string slashed. It was the trembling of the stave against the remnants of the wagon that had caused the rattling. 

The captain bent and touched the twitching face. It shrieked. 

Being a man of a somewhat taciturn and stern nature, Thorongil had not many dear friends with whom, for his own surety and their security, he could share his private thoughts. But there were those among his company who were dear to him. One, in particular, was Rochir, a bright, charming lad who, despite the disapproval of his family, had become fast friends with the strange foreigner. They had sparred together, talked closely at night while on watch and Thorongil had even told the boy a little bit of where he was from, his family and friends, and how much he missed them. Rochir had always leant him a ready ear and returned the confidence placed in him with noble service and a strong, sometimes over-eager sword arm. 

It was Rochir who Aragorn stood beside now. 

Though a veteran of many scraps, raids, tussles and the odd battle, Thorongil had never in all that time seen such an injury as this. Somehow a broken spar from the wagon's harness had caught the young archer between his ribs, piercing him in the side though not all the way through as Thorongil discovered when he walked round the ruin. But by the bright blood on those white lips, the healer concealed under a soldier's front knew a lung had probably been at least nicked if not worse. 

Thorongil spoke his friend's name, once, twice, but even his name had little effect. It was like whispering down a deep well and hoping the echo would carry. 

Leaving the prone, now-moaning figure for a moment, Thorongil walked a short distance away, passing a troubled hand over his weary, grey face. One of the king's horses currently lay a few yards off, its head struggling to lift sideways, froth heaving from its scored sides, nostrils red. A great gash, probably caused by a spear thrust, had severed the back leg tendon. It would never be able to rise again. 

Without pause, Thorongil lifted his sword and plunged it a full half-length through the animal's corded throat, pushing hard to ensure as painless a release as possible. 

The severed jugular sprayed badly. Thorongil stepped back though he was already too gouted for it to matter much. Contrary to his expectations, the horse writhed a long time, its forelegs thrashing the ground around it into churned mud before it finally lay exhausted, quivering, then still. 

Reluctantly, the captain returned to his friend's side. 

It was a bad wound. Mortal, more than likely. The clothing around the wound was disarranged and crimson-soaked, filled with dirt and splinters from the wounded one's futile efforts to free himself. The boy's eyes rolled back in their sockets, the only expression of pain he could communicate, normal speech being far beyond his power due to the weight pressing harder and harder on his chest, forcing him to gasp for air. His white hand dropped his bow, and for several, vicious moments, he grappled with the spar sticking out of his chest as though it were an itching splinter he longed to pluck out. His efforts soon exhausted him though, and he slumped back against the ground, panting and sobbing raggedly. Blood tinged his lips a darker red. 

Rochir seemed to be staring up at him accusingly, simultaneously asking why he lingered there and begging him not to leave. Only the vicious and the cruel, orcs and evil men, made sport of those too weak or hurt to succor themselves. Thorongil felt even his presence was a burden to the dying archer if he was only going to stand there. 

Yet this man, this ranger and renowned soldier found his hands quaking around the sword hilt that was ever-ready to fulfill the office for which it had been crafted. As a healer, Thorongil had given mercy before: to the very old or the incurably sick. It was a necessary but tasteless duty that had led him away from healing during his warring campaign. He had never had to do this. 

To kill in battle was expected—and lauded. Wars and the blood of good men conquered lands, extended the lives of kings and preserved balance in a world tipping madly out of control. It gave hope to second sons and hidden kings. Prowess was a measure of a man. Death was glorified and sung of until it lost its horror if not its sorrow. However, the slaying of a wounded man without witness, at least among the civilized, was a crime punishable by death and dishonor. It was a loathsome sign of the most debase of creatures. In Rohan, this ruling applied in especial since the times had, until recently, been peaceful. Every man was a son of the earth to which he should return naturally—even if battle had ripped holes in him that would end only after hours of agony without "incivility" to aid him. 

In the North, the law was very different. There, between the ruins of Fornost, the haunted expanse of the Barrow Downs, the Old Forest, the Trollshaws, the wolf-dens near the Baranduin and the growing multitudes of orcs in the Misty Mountains, death was not always a permanent fixture, and enough horrors existed to chill a man's blood when he was able to use his legs. Death in the North was often a mercy, a last gift of oblivion. 

And it was oblivion Rochir was begging for now, with his eyes, with the feeble tosses of his head, with every gentle pulse of blood from his open mouth, he was begging for the one boon Thorongil was not sure he could give. With the exception of the crimson leaking in more and more copious amounts from underneath his shirt, this boy was hale, as sprightly as a young sapling just bearing new leaves. To cut it down before its hoary age was murder. 

The fair plains were beginning to dwindle into formlessness; night crept on. Throngil knew his company would be returning soon, milling around, attempting to restore the order which had been lost some time ago. Still, he remained by Rochir's side, careless of the growing dark that crept over his shoulders and laid blue shadows across his eyes so the pale, writhing thing at his feet became part of the earth, blurred by the wetness that seeped like early dew from his eyes. 

The broadsword lifted almost of its own accord. Its length of steel was gored with the blood of the enemy. Somewhat ashamed, Thorongil hastily endeavored to wipe it clean, succeeding mostly in smearing it. Again, he wished for water. He had undervalued his waterskin. He reached down slowly and meticulously peeled back the soaked tunic from the white breast. Firming the sword in his hands, he weighted it, testing the perfect balance and his own steadiness. The lame did not tremble when he held it out in front of him. 

Without pausing for another breath, he centered the tip over that patch of white skin and threw his whole weight behind the stroke. The body arched; desperation and the sudden sharpness of renewed agony drove the wounded into a frenzy of activity. The death throes were violent, longer than the horse's. The boy clutched at the steel protruding from his heart as if trying to rip it free, instinctively attempting to preserve life in the body. 

When the irregular shuddering finally subsided, Thorongil remained half-leaning over his work, his tightly clenched hands unable to unfix themselves from around the pommel of his weapon. He stared out over the grasses. His men were returning slowly, and in the vanguard of them, he could see a tall, dark-eyed man, kinsman to the king and one of the foreigner's detractors who could smile and resent. He was also Rochir's father. 

The captain eased his sword free and straightened his shoulders. 


End file.
